


Let Me In

by WingSongHalo



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fluff, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, film critics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-04 10:30:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingSongHalo/pseuds/WingSongHalo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For as long as you have been living here in John’s house, ever since the game ended, John has never let you see the inside of one particular room. It is on the second floor, down a short hallway and to the right, opposite from the bathroom, and you haven’t the foggiest what kind of room it is.</p><p>In which John has a secret, and Karkat is determined to discover what it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me In

**Author's Note:**

> For my dear friend [ittybittytoomuch,](http://ittybittytoomuch.tumblr.com) who has frequently been the Egbert to my Vantas when I was feeling down and who wanted a hurt/comfort fic. Thank you for being proud of me when I fail abysmally at it.
> 
> (Also, sorry if this is fluffier than what you wanted. I cannot control the fluff. It just happens.)

Nepeta always used to warn you that curiosity killed the Karkat. 

Naturally, you never listened, because although many things have killed the Karkat, none of them were curiosity. Well, curiosity may have been a factor a few times, but…

Fuck it; you aren’t pursuing this line of thought.

The point is, you really can’t ever leave well enough alone. 

For as long as you have been living here in John’s house, ever since the game ended, John has never let you see the inside of one particular room. It is on the second floor, down a short hallway and to the right, opposite from the bathroom, and you haven’t the foggiest what kind of room it is. Even though John says he trusts you more than anyone else and you two should never have any secrets from each other and blah blah blah, he still will not let you in this room. Sometimes you contemplate just sneaking in while John is sleeping, but you are terrible at sneaking and also are not a heartless monster with no regard for John’s feelings. You stopped being that quite some time ago.

Still, it nags at you. What could he possibly be hiding from you? What is so important and secret that he can’t let you see it? It eats away at you until every time you pass by that door, you think very seriously about just going in anyway. Yet still you refrain, out of respect for John.

You ponder what might be in that room every day. Maybe the walls are covered in posters of girls. Maybe it’s where he keeps a stash of strange objects, the way Dirk hoards his awful puppets. Maybe it is where John goes when he says he is going for a walk. 

That last one always makes you screw your eyes shut and try to drive the thought away. 

You and John are eating breakfast at the kitchen table one morning when you finally crack. He has chosen Cap’n Crunch Berries, as usual (you will never understand how he can love those sickeningly sweet cereals but not cake. There are many things about John you will never understand). You have selected your old standby, Cornflakes. They are simple, but at least they do not dye your milk sickly shades of purple and green. The question is out before you even realize it was trying to escape.

“John, why can’t I go into that room upstairs?”

John pauses while a spoonful of cereal is only halfway to his open mouth. A moment that feels like it lasts for several minutes passes. A bit of tye-dyed milk drips from John’s spoon onto the table. You stare at the drop. It is easier than looking at John, even if it is really revolting.

Finally John seems to realize his mouth is open and closes it. He looks pensive for a second, and then reluctantly answers, “I don’t want you to see it.” Another pause. “ _I_ don’t want to see it,” he says then, quieter. He stares down at his cereal. 

Well _that_ answers your question. 

“That was a really good answer, John,” you say sarcastically, leaning back in your chair and glaring at him. “I am blown away by how good that answer was. I am overcome with peace and satisfaction, and a single appreciative tear is rolling down my face.”

“No it isn’t,” he says, unfazed, and leans forward to wiggle his eyebrows at you. “But I’m glad I continue to satisfy.” His expression is playful, but his eyes are pleading. He wants to change the subject. But you are done letting him change the subject. You are suddenly swept up in a rush of frustration as you search his annoyingly endearing face.

“You know what, fuck you, John,” you spit out, and he sits up straight again, looking taken aback. Suddenly all of your insecurities are spilling forth, like your dam of feelings has finally cracked enough to let—you cannot think of a good metaphor right now, dammit, you’re too busy yelling at John. “You’re always going on about how much you trust me and how important it is to be honest with each other and how we should _never_ have secrets from each other, and yet you continue to keep this from me! It’s like you deliberately keep it secret just to fuck with me and drive me crazy! Is that what you want, John? Do you want me to go shithive crazy over your stupid secret room?” 

“Karkat—“ he starts, reaching out a hand to place on your shoulder across the table, and his tone is placatory. You are in no mood for placation. You swat his hand away and narrow your eyes at the stupidly attractive young man before you.

“Why is it that I can’t see what’s in there, John? Is it something you’re ashamed of? Is it a huge fucking shrine to human Liv Tyler? Is it someplace you go when you can’t stand me anymore?” Somewhere in the back of your mind you register that John looks hurt, but you just can’t stop now. Everything you have ever thought about that room is just bursting out of you. You are a rage volcano and—right, no metaphors, only yelling now.

“You think you can have a secret Anti-Karkat Fortress without my knowledge?” you say, your voice rising. “You think you can sneak around having your little secrets and leave me in the dark? _Fuck. Fucking. That._ ” The last word comes out in a growl. 

“Karkat, you are really being unreasonable,” John says, and you can tell he’s trying to stay calm. “You’re right, I should have told you why you’re not allowed in there, but—“

“No, fuck your excuses,” you interrupt. You stand up abruptly from the table, your chair making a harsh scraping noise across the kitchen floor. “I am going to find out what is in that room right now, and then we’ll see who’s being _unreasonable._ ” You begin to stomp impetuously up the stairs, leaving John to trail after you and unsuccessfully attempt to calm you down. When you reach the top of the stairs, you turn left sharply until you are met with the plain door behind which John’s terrible secret dwells.

“Karkat, please don’t—“John says, tugging on one of your arms, but you jerk it out of his grip and twist the doorknob and fling the door open violently.

“It’s too late, John,” you say over your shoulder as you march inside. “You’re busted.” You turn around to see the inside of this room, at long last, and—

The anger ebbs out of you rapidly to be replaced with utter bemusement. The carpet is covered in dark oil stains, and there are numerous old cans of shaving cream lying morosely on their sides. There is a bed, several pairs of shoes, a dresser on which there is a framed picture of John (wow, he looks young there), and a few boring posters. You can’t imagine why John would keep something like this from you. Aside from the state of disrepair and…whatever would leave all those oil splots, it strikes you as kind of a boring room. It doesn’t even look like it has anything to do with John, save for the picture on the dresser.

“This is my Dad’s room,” John says quietly, but his voice startles you anyway as he walks up to stand behind you. For a minute you both stand looking around at the ransacked room. It feels empty and sad. You finally look at John. You recognize the look on your matesprit’s face. It’s the same face he makes when he opens his Wallet Modus or when people compliment him on his baking skills or when someone tells him they are proud of him. He looks troubled and nostalgic all at the same time. You have no idea what could bring on that combination of feelings.

“Your lusus lived here?” you say blankly. You suddenly feel like the most insensitive asshole to ever live. Well, more than you do usually, that is.

John shakes his head. “Not just here,” he says, gesturing around the room. “In this whole house. Every room. But…this one especially.” You really wish he would stop making that face. The knitted brow and troubled eyes don’t suit him. You want your playful dorky prankster back. 

You don’t really understand what a “dad” is. You have had to raise yourself, pretty much. You had your lusus, and he had been okay you guess (you adored him in no way whatsoever, you remind yourself), but most of the time it seemed like you had to take care of _him_ instead of the other way around. It’s weird for you to think about a permanent relationship with someone with whom you share genetic similarities. You shudder to think of spending any length of time with someone unfortunate enough to share genetic similarities with you, really. But for humans like John, it’s a sense of safety, a sense of belonging, a sense of love, and those are things you have never really had cause to understand.

Until quite recently, anyway.

John has made you understand how important those things really are. You suddenly realize that John has lost the person who taught him to treat people the way that he does. It’s because of this human dad that John is… John. 

And it’s because John is John that you are alive, pretty much. 

You have never met John’s lusus, but you feel a strange burst of gratitude towards him. 

While you are in your mental reverie, John has started picking up the cans of shaving cream, setting them all upright gently, as if righting all the toppled, ruined artifacts will somehow make this room easier to look at. You finally comprehend that you have forced John to confront something he may not be ready for, and you feel weak with regret.

You place a hand on John’s shoulder as he crouches down for the eighth can. “John,” you say, but you find you do not really know what to say after that. Instead, you just look at him, at the way his glasses have slid down his nose a bit and how his dark hair sweeps across his forehead to hang slightly over his eyes (he needs to get it cut again, you note). He doesn’t look back at you, just continues to stare down at the can of shaving cream. He doesn’t seem angry at you, because he doesn’t shrug off your hand, but you still feel like you have damaged things irreparably in your rashness. 

You suddenly feel like an outsider in this situation. You shouldn’t be here. This is private; this is John dealing with his grief. Your awkward, ignorant fumblings will only hurt John even more. You remove your hand and turn to leave your matesprit alone, but he catches your hand before you even take the first step.

“Where are you going?” he says, and when you glance back at him, John doesn’t look troubled anymore, which is good, you suppose, but what you see there instead confuses you. You recognize this face, too. It’s the same look he gives you when he wraps you in his scarf or runs his fingers through your hair or kisses you good morning. It’s John’s look of love, and you feel it is rather out of place in this moment, after you have yelled at him and then purposely gone against his wishes and brought up memories of his departed dad human. You don’t get how John can keep looking at you like that, day after day. Why hasn’t he gotten tired of you like everyone else? Hell, even _you_ are tired of you.

“Away,” you answer at last, gruffly. “You need to be alone, don’t you?”

John looks baffled. “No,” he blinks, “Why would I?”

“Because you’re remembering your dad-lusus and I can’t possibly understand what it’s like to lose one so what use am I in this situation? Not to mention the way I shouted at you and acted like a complete asslick.” You look down at your hand. John hasn’t let go of it. “I’m just going to end up making you miserable, John,” you finish. You glance back up at his face. He is looking at you like you have started speaking in French. Or Alternian, you guess.

“Karkat, there will never be a time when your company isn’t wanted,” your boyfriend tells you, and then he pauses in thought. “Except when I’m in the bathroom, but you knew that already,” he qualifies. And while you blink and try to come up with a response to that, he continues. “I’m…okay. I avoided this room for a long time!” He gives a short, forced laugh. “It’s probably a good thing you barged in here.” You raise your eyebrows at him doubtfully, but he goes on regardless. “I guess I thought if I didn’t open the door I wouldn’t have to accept that he’s really gone. I thought I’d feel devastated if I ever came in here again. But…” He looks down at one of the oil stains at his feet, and bites his lip. You always want to kiss him when he does that. “I think it’s okay now,” he says, still talking to the floor. “That he’s gone, I mean. I… accepted his death a long time ago. I thought maybe he’d still be haunting this room, or whatever… I don’t mean like literally, but just.” He glances up at you with earnest blue eyes. “Memories of him, y’know?” he asks. You don’t. “But he’s not,” he continues anyway. “It’s just a stupid room. And Dad would’ve hated to see it like this; _look_ at it.” He laughs again, but this time it’s natural. He runs the hand that isn’t holding yours through his hair in a gesture you know is of relief.

You can’t help but feel you should say something. So you try.

“John, I’m sorry your dad-lusus is dead. But I think you’re probably doing a pretty good job making up for his absence. You know, by…” you squint a little, staring down at an oil spot like you’re trying to take a Rorschach test, “doing things that he would have done. Have wanted you to do, I mean,” you finish awkwardly. You have a feeling you are not saying this right. It is probably the longest stretch of time you have gone without saying “fuck.” But John’s looking at you in surprise and before you know it you are talking a mile a minute. “Fuck, John,” you say—whoops, there goes that record—“I don’t know what to say. I can’t really understand what your Dad meant to you. Trolls are used to thinking that anyone around them can—is likely to—die anytime.” You avert your eyes again. “We’re not made for lasting bonds,” you conclude lamely.

John squeezes your hand gently. “You seem to be doing a pretty good job at lasting bonds to me,” he says, and you snort.

“Typical,” you grumble. “Here you are mourning your dead lusus and I say a bunch of dumbass shit and then _you’re_ the one…” You sputter. Close your mouth. Sigh. “I’m supposed to be helping you, but I don’t know how,” you say quietly. You hate admitting you don’t know how. John has always been so much better at feelings. “I’ve never had anyone be around long enough to be proud of me,” you say. “I guess I feel like you’re lucky to have had someone like that at all.”

You realize what you just said.

“Shit, fuck, that’s not what I meant!” you say frantically, waving your arm around like a moron. “I’m not trying to say you shouldn’t be sad about it or—” But you don’t get to finish your sentence, because John stands up and puts a finger to your lips and shooshes you.

“Karkat, you’re right. I was lucky.” He pauses. “ _Am_ lucky,” he corrects, and squeezes your hand again. “Even though my dad’s gone, I’ve still got someone around to be proud of me. And so do you.” He smiles at you. You marvel at his ability to say sappy bullshit like that with such an honest expression. You hate that you can feel your eyes stinging anyway. What is it about John that turns you into a blubbering goddamn pansy all the time?

John does what he always does when it looks like you might start crying: he leans forward and kisses you on the forehead; and suddenly your arms have wrapped themselves around his shoulders and you’re hugging him, and you know that John is still hurting about his loss but goddammit he’s always just going around being stupidly perfect and strong because you fail abysmally at being either of those things. Your matesprit’s arms rest on your back, and for a while you just hold each other, relishing the feeling of having someone to rely on. 

You _are_ proud of John. You wish he would realize that he is everything that is right about this new world you and the others have made and you aren’t fit to be hugging him or comforting him right now; you aren’t fit to be loved by someone like John but John wants you here anyway and you love him for it. You have always been good with words, but you can never say the right ones when it comes to John. He just removes all ability to think clearly. He spins your world around until you’re dizzy and disoriented, and yet you can never get enough of the feeling.

Your thoughts are rapidly approaching Maximum Saccharinity, so you pull back and hold onto his shoulders. His eyes, the color of Blue Raspberry Gushers, meet yours and godammit how are you supposed to stop feeling all mushy when he’s looking at you like that, Jesus. You look around the room. It’s a nicely-sized room. It’s an absolute mess, but so are most things in your life so you are kind of used to that.

“Need some help with those?” you say, gesturing to an overturned shaving cream can, and the huge smile that spreads across John’s face tells you that you have managed to say the right thing, against all odds. You smile back. Just a little.

“Sure!” he says eagerly, and crouches down to pick up more cans. You do the same. The cans are cold, but the labels are faded in the places where the sunlight from the window has hit them.

“Why are there so many cans of shaving cream, anyway?” you ask conversationally. John laughs. 

“I was messing around with duplication before I entered the game, and then I guess they all just wound up in my dad’s room?” He shrugs. “Maybe he put them here himself. I dunno.” 

You spend the next few minutes picking up things in John’s dad’s room. You right every can (John makes a pyramid out of a few, but it only stays up for like three seconds). You straighten the row of shoes. John straightens the posters on the walls, even though they are all spattered with oil. He stands back and admires his work, hands on his hips. He looks satisfied, looking around the room. You cannot imagine why.

“Karkat,” your matesprit says finally, looking at you with a smile. “What do you think about turning this room into a home theater?”

You stare at him. “Would you really…I mean, is that something you’d want?” you ask him.

He raises an eyebrow. “Karkat, it’s me. Of _course_ I want a home theater. And it would really make sense for a pair of film critics to have one, anyway.” Well, he has a point there. You are still not quite sure why your joint column has gained such a large following, but your scathing commentary combined with John’s sense of humor seems to appeal to people, and writing your columns would be a lot easier if you had a miniature theater right in your home. 

You eye the oil stains everywhere. “We have a fuck-ton of work to do if this dump is going to be a theater,” you say grumpily, but John just smiles wider because he knows that means you want it, too.  
\-----

A month later, you and John are sitting (John would say you are “cuddled up” but you refuse to acknowledge it as such since you do not _cuddle_ ) on the couch as the light from the huge television screen makes your faces flicker a ghostly blue. You are well-equipped with all the necessities for movie night: the bowl of popcorn (extra butter), the root beer (caffeine-free), and the gummy worms (sour, and eaten within the first five minutes of the movie). Like all highly professional movie critics, the two of you are of course viewing this film in your pajamas. John is wearing a faded old white Ghostbusters shirt and some dark blue pajama pants. You are wearing a black t-shirt that is much too big for you (every fucking shirt is much too big for you), and your gray pajama pants have red cartoon crabs all over them (they were a gift from Kanaya so you have to wear them. John thinks they are “cute.” You don’t really care as long as they are warm; John keeps this place pretty cold). The movie, like every movie John selects, has been terrible, a high-production action flick with more holes in its plot than there are holes in John's socks (there are many). You are not even sure you know most of the characters’ names. Perhaps you dozed off somewhere in the middle. As far as you are concerned, if you’ve seen one explosion, you have seen them all.

John, however, looks impressed when the credits roll (he is easily impressed). “Man, that was so good!” he says, looking at you excitedly. “I don’t know why it didn’t do better at the box office.”

You roll your eyes. “John, you say that about _every movie we watch._ ”

He frowns. “Well, I have good taste in movies,” he defends himself. You snort.

“ _I_ have good taste, John. _I_ have good taste.” 

“Yeah well,” he says, shifting on the couch a little and grabbing some popcorn from the bowl between you, “You liked _Beauty and the Beast: an Enchanted Christmas._ ”

“Fuck you, that movie was sweet, okay? It was very romantic!” 

“Dude, that pipe organ was creepy as _shit._ ”

“…Yeah, it really was,” you admit grudgingly. He smiles at you, and you can’t resist smiling back. You suppose you’ll let him win this time.

The new blue carpet feels plush beneath your bare feet, and you wiggle your toes a little. The only evidence this room bears of once belonging to someone else is the dresser with the framed picture of John, which you both agreed deserved to stay there. 

You have not met John’s dad, and you never will. But when you look over at his son and he smiles his idiotic perfect bucktoothed smile and playfully chucks a piece of popcorn at your face, you can’t imagine he’d be anything but proud.

“John,” you say suddenly, and he stops, hand raised in preparation to throw another piece of popcorn. “Uh, I really don’t say this as often as I should, or, well, at all really, but…” You swallow. John is looking at you patiently. “Fuck, we all know I’m shit at saying anything meaningful. I am worse at explaining feelings than Gamzee is at explaining rainbows,” you spit out, running a hand through your hair nervously.

“I dunno, dude; we kind of make a living off the meaningful stuff we say,” John points out, poking you.

“Shut up, this is important!” you snap, waving his hand off. Your matesprit raises his eyebrows, but says no more. You sigh. “John, I know I’ll never understand what it’s like to lose a… a dad. But for what it’s worth… I’m proud of you,” you mumble, speaking to the bowl of popcorn rather than John now. 

When you hazard a glance up, John is staring at you with an expression that might be shock, but a split second later his face wavers, and for one wild moment you think he is going to start crying, but then a wide grin spreads across his face and then the insensitive nookwipe starts _laughing._ “Pffff,” he sputters, still yukking it up while you glare at him indignantly. “Dude, that was so corny!” 

“Fuck you, John, just fuck you!” you snarl over his laughter, feeling your face heat up. It feels like you are blushing right up to the tips of your retarded nubby horns. “You said pretty much the same fucking thing that one time!”

“Yeah but…” He is still giggling. “It sounds so much cornier when you say it, man.”

Okay now you are quite offended. 

“I’m glad I’m so _hilarious,_ you unfeeling bulgebiter; it’s not like I was trying to be culturally sensitive or be a fucking supportive ‘boyfriend’ or anything! Go ahead, keep laughing; I’ll sit here and stew in regret for having said anything.” John has stopped laughing by this point and is just watching you with a grin, but you are on a roll here. “I will stew until I am well-done. It will be a stew of incompetence and bitterness and I bet it tastes fucking _terrible._ ” On second thought, you are not even sure what you are saying anymore. That hadn’t been your best metaphor, but goddammit, you are really embarrassed and you cannot be creative with your words when you are embarrassed. Your arms and legs are crossed and you are giving him your most disapproving frown (it is _not_ a pout, no matter _how_ many times John calls it that). “I don’t know why I even bother,” you grumble. 

John just smiles at you, and places his hands on your knees, and leans forward to kiss you. As angry as you are with him, you let him, because you are a pitiful loser who is helplessly in human-love with this infuriating alien. His kiss is slow and gentle, and after a few seconds you find you do not regret saying anything after all. Not one little bit. You even kiss him back a little, because, as previously mentioned, you are a pathetic fuckwit. Your hands find their way to his shoulders. The taste of root beer still lingers on his tongue.

When he draws back, his eyes are soft with affection. You hate that you are surprised by how blue they are every single fucking time they meet yours. He is looking at you like you are precious, and try as you might to pretend otherwise, you do not mind being precious to John all that much.

“I’m proud of you too, Karkat,” he says quietly, placing a hand on your cheek and bending down to touch his forehead against yours.

And the honesty, the love, in every subsequent kiss makes you start to believe it. Just a little.


End file.
